


Tell the Wolves (I'm Home)

by canibecandid



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairytale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Very Mild Blood and Gore, vague concept of fairies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12891879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canibecandid/pseuds/canibecandid
Summary: There are whispers in the night in the Northern Kingdom, songs caught on the cold winter breeze, that speak of a time not so long ago. They talk of a prince and a knight lost to the call of the forest some three years ago, that those who go into the forest do not come out, and that those that are called to the forest must obey. Whispers that grow louder as Eric Bittle turns an ear to the forest and a call to come home.





	Tell the Wolves (I'm Home)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_one_that_fell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_that_fell/gifts).



Once upon a time, there had been two boys in the Northern Kingdom, both strong, fair, and just. One had been a stable boy, with dreams of becoming a Knight Captain, working hard with woodsticks and barrels for practice. His name was Kent, and he had hair like the golden rays of the sun. There was no money to be had for him, nor home to speak of, just a pile of hay and what the stable master brought him for food. But he was determined; quick witted, light on his feet, and deceptively strong. On the stable master’s good name, he was accepted into the guard for training alongside the king’s only son, Jack.

Jack, while good hearted, never fit with guards. Well educated and trained, many felt like he had not earned his place with the guards, but he was here. He wanted more than anything to live up to his kingdoms expectations for a prince. To be kind, wise, and when needed, mighty.

His father had overthrown the gruesome king before him, a bloody rebellion for the throne. It could have toppled their nation, instead it was a rebirth. Jack would always live in his shadow, no deed that he would do would ever measure to the deeds of his father in Jack’s eyes.

The two worked well together, Kent was eager to prove himself and Jack to step away from the shadow that plagued him. Battles conquered, villagers protected and thoroughly charmed, with Kent by his side, Jack bloomed into a prince worthy of his father’s name in the villagers eyes and his own. But there were whispers in the forest, voices that called to Jack, so much so, that the two left in the middle of the night.

Through thickets of thorns and fallen trees, over dried and frost worn riverbeds, they followed the metal taste that settled on the tip of their tongues.

It seemed like endless days and nights that the two wandered through the forest, frost filling in the lines on their cheeks, frozen to a youthful glow and shivering until they were hollow on the inside. When suddenly there was a glimmer of sunlight on a silver form. It spoke so sweetly that they reached, aching for warmth. The grass was green and the sun warm on their cheeks as they were pulled into a world of glittering silver.

_Beautiful_ , the words would wash over them like a wave on the sand, _how beautiful you would look in ivory pure._

She called to them like church bells, to be worshiped and praised as she cups Jack’s face. “Your eyes are so sad.” Her voice etched and heavy, silver rivulets of tears fell prettily from pale green eyes. “Sad and lonely. It’s your heart that makes you this way.” Her cold thumb traced over his cheeks. “I could take it away, wouldn’t you like something more beautiful instead of this pain?”

“Yes.” Kent said on a sigh next to him, entranced, at the same time Jack said no.

Her grip held him in place as she bared her teeth, eyes wild. “You dare forsake the warmth I have given you? The refuge to my court?”

Jack struggled until he was free, stumbling back, sword drawn. Instantly the illusion is shattered, and Jack could only stand in horror as a silver hand reached into Kent’s chest and came out bloody with Kent’s still beating heart.

“Pretty pretty!” She cooed over it, holding it to her cheek, blood staining her silver and ivory surface. “Pretty boy, will you take up this sword for me?” She placed a flower in the hole of Kent’s chest, roots and vines mend a shape like skin over the flowered cavity.

Kent turned to him, brandishing his sword, and they fight.

Blow after blow, blocking with his shield, scrapes in his armor, Jack fought until he was on one knee with Kent standing over him, poised for a final blow. But Jack took his sword and ran it through Kent the left side of Kent’s face, through a perfect storm grey eye. Kent howled, dropping to the ground as Jack ran. It is not a pretty victory, but he won, his heart thudding in his chest is proof enough.

The air became too cold for him to breath and he was frozen in place, a vision of Kent crumpled before him on the ground.

_You’ve broken my toy, dear prince._ The Silverling’s voice played like laughter on the breeze. _You’ll never leave this forest, you answered my call. You are mine._  

Jack tried to fight the ice and vines holding him in place. The ice settles in his veins and he felt tired, so tired. Frost covered his eyes like a film, eyes open and watching the world around him. He watched as day turns to night, like an unmoving sentinel of the forest.

_You might have won, but I will have you. The wind will scream for you, your kingdom will mourn you, but my, oh my, how I will make you sing._

* * *

 Eric Bittle was an unusual prince, much to the chagrin of the rest of the kingdoms. Bright, happy, and seemingly made of honey sweet nectar; other Kingdoms blamed the Queendom principality that he participated in things unbecoming of a prince. Many kingdoms had hoped overtime he’d take after his father, unjokingly called Captain, calling back to his firm demeanor and former post as Captain of the Guard.

He lacked in his studies of languages, politics, and theory much to the dismay of his tutors. But he was endlessly charming and charismatic, and his people adored him. Eric spoke to them as people, the way his father taught him, and applied solutions to agriculture and food shortages with the consultation of his mother.  
In short, he was a fine prince for the odd southern queendom. He would do well in his hunt. The hunt pulled at the nature of the people that lived inside the southern kingdom.

A hunt which would draw him northward, his mother knew. From the way his mouth would curve into a frown as the wind blew by, he would always turn his face north, there was no clearer sign. At a young age, Eric could find true north no matter where he was, as if the wind would carry away if it could.

Three years before Eric’s eighteenth birthday, Eric bolted to his feet in the middle of his lessons, clutching at his chest and feeling a cold wash over him. Though no cold could be detected, Eric felt it settling heavily on his heart, and he looked to his right; towards the north. Something was wrong.

Finally, when the time came, Eric set out on foot with a simple rucksack of hearty bread, a knife, and his favored bow and arrows. He headed northeast as the pull in his chest commanded, trading his services as a baker for shelter or warmer clothing. No matter how much heat his body gave off, the northern wind ripped right through to his bones.

At a local tavern, a slightly unusual man with finely groomed facial hair told him legends as Eric baked bread for the inn and did various chores, he was curious man, the one they simply called Knight. Eric stayed in the small village, famous for its former well-makers, for longer than he’d anticipated. They learn of his nature, rumors of the southern people did travel after all, and he went on runs in the fields as fast as his feet could carry him.

Over time, traveler’s frescoes adorn the walls and ceilings, each more heartbreakingly beautiful as the collection grew slowly, fueled by Adam and Nurse’s tales and Larissa’s clever hands.  They introduce him to Christopher, the town’s blacksmith, and his wife, Caitlin, showed him how to fletch his own arrows. Knight taught him how to handle the larger Northern shield and sword, and how to fight against those with only Eric’s bow, even though his grass green eyes looked wild and haunted after an intense spar.

William, and his family with hair the color of fire, taught him to trap and snare game in the fields and the ocean.  
Time passed, but the northern wind blew cold and sharp all year, and Eric grew to treat it as an old friend rather than an annoyance. He asked what made the north so cold as if the sun never warmed the ground, and his friends grew silent.  
Adam, a stablehand by day and a bard come evening, frowned heavily. He spoke of a time when the north was bright and vibrant, a happier time before the ice. There was no song to his voice, no teasing lilt and grace.

“There’s something that lives in woods.” Larissa told him as she painted. “It calls to people.” Her face is etched in concentration. “Eric, if you go into the forest, are you prepared for what happens if you lose?”

The question weighed on him and he frowned intently. “And if I win?”

Larissa scowled. “Then the wind will mourn you as well.”

He followed the advice of his friends and avoided the forest, but sometimes he would stand at the treeline where the treetop branches are just reaching out to be over head. It’s in those moments that the leaves would shake so violently with the wind that it rattles in his chest, like a tortured howling  that drew him forward by pure force alone. For days, he would go to the edge of the forest, the parts that begged for his darkest parts, and stand resolutely as the wind howled itself to madness.

“What makes you stand at the edge of the woods like that?” Knight asked him quietly one evening, eyes filled with worry. Eric placed a hand over his chest, and turned toward the forest.

“Because it called me here. It’s not just the northwind that called me, it’s here. My hunt called me here.”

In time, his friends did not worry quite so much, instead they started to hope. Maybe that if someone could resist the call to enter the forest, then maybe they could escape its snares as well.

When Eric crossed the fields to enter the forest to answer the howl, he did so with his friends at his side. The bow that Christopher had carved and strung for him, with shiny iron tips on the end, was heavy in his hand, arrows tucked safely into the quiver that rested against his thigh. Larissa’s endless time spent making the cloak he wore now and the one stowed in his pack, clever charms and a traveler’s protection stitched into the sleeves for fortitude. William had given him ropes and a leather pouch with a red braid, a gift of fire from his family. Nurse and Adam’s clever words in his mind as he headed forward, stories that the village knew to be true, trophies won by shining silver light.

The stop at a large boulder, the spot Eric had determined to be safe for his friends to send him off, and Knight stepped forward, pine green eyes misty as he placed both hands on Eric’s shoulders. It’s a tense moment before he leaned forward and planted a kiss on the crown of Eric’s head. A warrior’s blessing.

There’s a moment of hesitation as he reached the treeline, touching the weatherworn bark at his side, the wind almost imperceptible. And he steps forward, into the woods.

Instantly, the wind stopped, a lingering taste of frost bites his senses as he continues forward. Eric rubed pointer finger in smooth circles across the pad of his thumb, taking in the the iced woods around him, keeping him tethered to what he was actually seeing and not what he expected to see. He could taste the metal in the air as he covered his nose with the cloak Larissa had made him as it grew stronger.

The wind came back with such a force that it caused Eric to stumble over, looking down at the ground and then glancing in the new direction he was pointed. The sun barely filtered over head but shown on a lone statue, covered in vines and grass coated in a gossamer sheet of frost. Jaw set, he held his bow a little tighter, the iron tips smoking. Eric circled him slowly, the pull in his chest leading him here, and he looked closer at the statue of the man. The face looked so familiar, sad eyes staring out into the forest with a crown made of ice perched on his head. A prince in the north, Eric smiled wistfully, it had been sometime since that had been true. Even his garb had the official crest of the northern kingdom.

“Sleep well, prince.” He pulled the vines off the statue. “You pulled me all this way to clear you off. Then I will.” The iron tips of his bow smoked and he dropped it at his feet, the metal hitting the leg of the statue. The ice where the metal hit melted and Eric stared as it spread, glancing up at the face of the statue and gasped. “It can’t be.”

Anxious hands shook as he put them on the face of the statue, the ice melted instantly revealing winter blue eyes. A metallic twang entered the air and the hair on the back of Eric’s neck stood, and his jaw clenched reflexively. He hesitated for a moment, before taking the extra cloke in his pack and draped it on the statue's shoulders.

Layers of ice melted away as the fog grew in the forest, but Eric stood his ground.

 “Jack Zimmermann of the Northern Kingdom, I’ve answered your call.” Eric said sounding every bit like the prince he was. Jack gasped as he drew his first breath, falling to his knees, hands holding the cloak to his body. On his knees, he gaped up into Eric’s honey brown eyes, unbelieving and tears streamed down his cheeks, blue eyes wild.

His shaking hands reached out and touched the tips of Eric’s fingers and he breathed the first words he’d spoken in three years. “You came.”

Kneeling he took his bow and arrows in his left hand, Eric placed Jack’s hand over his fast beating heart. “Of course I did.”

The fog became dense and rolling, chilling ice and the taste gunmetal lingered in their mouths. The Sliverling stepped out of the dense forest, ice chilling the ground she crossed, her milky green eyes blinked owlishly at Eric. Her smile had too many teeth to be considered anything but feral and malicious and Jack trembled as he looked up as Eric rose to his feet, and said to Eric desperately.

“I don’t want to go back to the cold. Please, I can’t.”

“What is she?” Eric asked, the Silverling glittering in the sun.

“A trophy, a prize that used to belong to the mad king.” Jack answered him, voice low.

“Fool, I owned that lord.” She laughed sweetly, glassy eyes empty, circling the pair. 

“I’ve never met a southern wolf walker before.” The Silverling said, her melodic voice lilted on the breeze. “To think, I could have two princes in my collection soon.”

The frost built on the ground and Eric stood unwavering, her face contorted into a beautiful mimicry of rage. “I can give you warmth, I could give you warmth here in the forest.” Her voice hissed and shook like reeds. Eric smiled and reached into bag, pulling out the braid of hair that William had given him.

“I have an offering of fire.” He held it out flat on his palm of his right hand, the blue ribbon tied on the end twisted aimlessly in the breeze. The Silverling bent her head, tongue licking her lips greedily before snatching it into her hands.

“It’s mine. Pretty little thing. Mine.” She licked her lips, silver spit oozed from her mouth as the swallowed the braid, slurping the ribbon in with loud satisfaction. “What will the little wolfling do?” She crooned, stepping in back from Jack and Eric, her arms stretched wide. “What will he do now that I have his fire?”

“We’re leaving.” Eric said, taking a firm step forward.

“You will surely die of the cold.” Her voice was sickly sweet, stepping forward and letting her arms drift to her side. “Come with me.”

Eric took a step forward and the Silverling’s mouth curled into a saccharin sweet smile. “Lay down your weapons, dog.” She put her hand on the iron tip of the bow, and the air hangs still as the Silverling let out a piercing screech that echoed in the woods. The iron burning angry red molten veins splintered up her arm, the Silvering howled in agony, her perfect face cracking and overflowing with liquid silver rivets.

A growl ripped from Eric’s throat as he nocked an arrow and sent it flying, sparks burst from where the iron tip planted in her shoulder. She let out a hysterical shriek as more red veins scattered across her chest and neck.

“My knight, my pretty boy! Take up your sword, defend me.” The Silverling sobbed, reaching her uninjured hand out into the darkness of the forest. There’s a shift in the wind as a smooth hand grasped hers firmly and the Silverling pulled a man forward into the light. Rising onto shaking knees, Jack stumbled forward, a name long forgotten on his lips.

“Kenny, what did it do to you?”

The eye that Jack had taken was replaced with a new one, one that shifted in the hazy fog of the forest. Kent had been remade, broken skin replaced with ivory and knitted together with silver. The flower that had replaced his heart had grown, the foliage climbing his chest and its roots tracking over his shoulder and down his back. The Silverling cupped his emotionless face, her voice thin and reedy. “He hurt me, my pretty thing. Kill the wolfling. Kill him and give me his heart, pretty boy.”

She kissed Kent’s unmoving lips as boiling silver pours from her hands into Kent’s, forming a shield and sword. Kent stepped forward, charging quickly at Eric, batting Eric back and slashing. Eric rolled away, dropping his arrows, quickly coming to his feet. He used the bow to catch and balance Kent’s blows, side stepping and twisting Kent’s arm, causing Kent to drop his sword. Eric kicks it out of the way as Kent continued to charge forward, attempting to use his shield to bash him to the ground. It’s a dance of skill and strength as they fight, Eric’s unnatural strength giving him a fair edge to Kent’s unseelie influence. But there’s a moment of absolute clarity on Eric’s face that Jack recognized as Kent’s shield clashing with the iron on Eric’s bow causes a shower of sparks. Imperceptibly fast, Eric ducked under the shield, scraping his bow across the silver cracking in Kent’s chest, the sparks causing the flower to catch fire.

Kent dropped the shield instantly, eyes wide in horror as the fire spread, and he stumbled towards the silver queen. He fell to his knees, picking up two of Eric’s abandoned arrows before rushing the Silverling, who screeched as he grips her arms, the flames bursting over her.

“End it.” He yelled in her face, silver ooze flecked with rust spilling over and dripping from his mouth. “End this!” The iron arrows sparked again as Kent rams one through the Silverling’s chest with incredible force. High pitched screeching poured through the forest, warped metal and the Silverling’s cries and in the scream of metal and smoke, the fog dissipates and the air is warm. All that’s left is Kent’s broken sobbing, ivory and silver hands tarnished by the iron arrow and his glass eye fractured into pieces.

“I want this to be over.” Kent choked on the rust that overflows from his mouth, he looks over at Eric with his one good eye and pleads with the Southern Prince. “Please, I want this to be over.”

Battered, bruised, and bleeding Eric goes to Kent’s side, ducking under Kent’s shoulder to help carry him, the metal oozing from Kent’s cracks burn through his cloak but Eric doesn’t feel it as Kent sobbed and clutched at the hole in his chest as his other hand still holded a single iron arrow. Jack stooped under the other shoulder and helps carry Kent to the edge of the woods. It’s one desperate foot after the other as the three make it to the treeline.

Tears ran freely from Kent’s unmangled eye as he looked over to Jack. “I want to see the sun, Jack. I want to see one more time.”

They stop in the middle of the field near the rock, and Jack closed his eyes, the sun warming his cheeks and the wind gently blowing through his hair. When he opened his eyes, he gazes across the field to the little village.

“I remember this place.” Kent said on a laugh and a groan of pain. “We came here together.” His knees buckled and Jack and Eric set him down with his back on the rock. The breeze fluttered through Kent’s blonde and silver hair, and he turns his good eye to Jack. “Jack, you have to p-pro-” He choked back a rust filled cough. “Promise me that you’ll give us a better ending.” The silver tainted rust slipped from the side of his mouth. “An ending where the stable boy and the prince can face their demons on their own. Where we didn’t need a trophy to make us men.”

Jack said nothing as tears slide down his cheeks, just nodding as he knelt to the ground next to Kent and took one of Kent’s iron warped hands and rested it against his cheek.

Even with the hole in his chest and mangled eye, Kent was beautiful in the sun, ivory and silver skin glinting in the light. He stared at the forest for a second, before resting the iron arrow in his hand over where his heart should have been and tilting his head up to look at the sky.

Gentle curling vines crawled up his legs, seeping into cracks where silver once laid and wrapping around the iron arrow, bursts of flowers blooming over his chest and cracked eye. His last breath leaves him with a smile on his face and eyes skyward watching the clouds, and Jack knew that Kent is finally free.

Eric put a hand on Jack’s shoulder as Jack moved the now vined arm across the shell of Kent’s body and they stay until the sun goes down over the village.

Jack pulled the cloak tighter to himself as Eric lead him to the inn and up the stairs, past Adam and Justin’s singing and the revelry happening. Jack sat on the bed as Eric lit a lantern and unpacked the little bundle he’d carried into the forest, eyes clouded with tears. Eric stopped, sniffing the air and then turning back to the Northern Prince.

“Jack?”

The dam broke and the tears flowed freely as Jack drew in rasping breaths, Eric knelt in front of him. Honey brown eyes warmed with concern and one of Jack’s shaking hands came to rest on Eric’s cheek. “You came. I called for you, and you came.”

Eric’s returning smile was gentle as he cupped the back of Jack’s hand and rested against his palm. “It’s a little difficult to explain, but I’m E-”

“Eric Richard Bittle the second, crowned prince of the south.” Jack gave a disbelieving watery laugh. “Your people are descended from wolf walkers, you bake with the commoners, and you adore your grandmother. And you’ve carried me from hell for three years.” He fell off the bed and into the warm and steady weight of Eric’s body. “You can’t possibly understand how-”

Eric’s voice is thick as he held Jack tightly. “Of course I would, Jack. I’ve carried your pull with me my whole life. The hunt has always pulled me to the north and it led me to you.”

They stayed on the floor, holding each other for awhile until they’re just sitting and facing each other, both faces splotched from tears.

“What do we do now?” Jack asked, leaning against the bed.

“Whatever you want.”

It’s an easy reply, but it feels immense. He’s free from the ice, of the Silverlings gilded hold, and for the first time in recent memory, Jack feels safe and warm in Eric’s presence. There’s no shadow to overcome or trophy to win and fight for, and he’s in control of where his path leads. He smiled softly at Eric, who returns it with easy affection, and hopes that wherever his choices take him that Eric is there, too.

His spirit is tied to a wolf-walker, the future is uncertain, and in the flickering of an oil lamp, Jack knew that it will work out.

This isn’t the end, it is only the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The Silverling is actually the Stanley Cup. That's why she calls the "Mad King" a Lord.  
> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, I'm canibecandid over there!  
> [My Tumblr](http://canibecandid.tumblr.com)


End file.
